


What Destroyed Us, Can Rebuild Us

by FanfictionForCookies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asthma, Big Brother Mycroft, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Mycroft Being a Good Brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 21:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12920442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanfictionForCookies/pseuds/FanfictionForCookies
Summary: 'Mycroft was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to be able to keep up with Sherlock.They were supposed to become pirates. Sherlock as captain with trusty Mycroft as firstmate. How were they supposed to be pirates now? How could they be pirates if, when the moment was crucial, Mycroft would scare him like this?'Sherlock is there for Mycroft's first asthma attack while running though the streets of downtown London as a child, the experience leaving him with hatred and distrust. As these feelings continue to rule their relationship as adults, what will Sherlock do when history repeats itself?





	What Destroyed Us, Can Rebuild Us

“Come on, My!” The eight-year-old voice of Sherlock was meters ahead of Mycroft as he desperately ran to catch up to the child he was supposed to be babysitting while their parents looked around some of the small shops in a quiet part of London.

The pair had been walking aimlessly around the area, Mycroft personally looking for a book store while Sherlock just skipped along with his pirate hat set proudly atop his head.

“My purse! Somebody! Help! Thief!” A middle-aged woman just ahead of them shrieked as a burly man ripped her handbag from her and sprinted down the street.

Sherlock was in pursuit before Mycroft’s hand could register to grab the child.

Now Mycroft was running with every fiber of energy he could summon, hoping that he could catch Sherlock before Sherlock caught the thief. He couldn’t shake the images out of his head as he imagined the man, three or four times Sherlock’s size, punting him like a football or smashing his head on a brick wall.

Mycroft could feel his chest exploding. He knew he wasn’t fit. He knew he shouldn’t be running like this. But what choice did he have?

“Darn it! Get back here, you rapscallion!” Sherlock was half a block ahead, standing with his shoulders squared and his chest puffed out in the middle of the sidewalk as he shook his fist after the man who had easily outrun the child after a three block pursuit.

Mycroft caught up to the child and put his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“Don’t worry, Mycroft. We can catch him next time.” Sherlock smiled and put a consoling hand on his big brother’s shoulder, mistaking the teens attempt to bring his body back into check as an anguishing display of defeat.

“Y-yeah-” Mycroft tried to return his brother’s smile but couldn’t find the strength.

No matter how much he gasped for air, it was like nothing was getting in. His vision around the edges was blackening and he heard his brother cry out his name as he collapsed to the pavement. His chest felt tighter than it ever had before. His body panicking at the invisible weight on his chest as the darkness ate away at his ability to see like a low flame consuming parchment. It was like someone had stuffed his face in a pillow. Both his vision and his breathing abilities slowly evaporated without his ability to do a single thing about it.

And as his vision disappeared completely, he felt like he was breathing in water.

His hearing faded shortly after his sight, leaving him alone to his terror as he fought to suck down even one breath. But nothing was happening. Why was nothing happening? His lungs burned for oxygen, screaming at him to provide it, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t.

Finally, after what felt like forever encased in a tomb of his own fear, his consciousness drained away like water down a sink.

* * *

Sherlock sat with his parents in stunned silence in the hallway of the hospital, his legs dangling limply off the edge of the chair as he stared blankly ahead.

The wet, desperate wheezing sound that had come from his brother after he fell at the end of their pirate chase, had done more than catch Sherlock off-guard. It had scared him.

He had knelt next to Mycroft as a crowd gathered around them, shaking his shoulder and calling his name, hoping against the mounting dread that his brother would suddenly stop making the scary noise and jump to his feet as his normal self again, chastising Sherlock for his recklessness before offering him a soft smile and a piggy-back ride back to where they had promised Mummy and Daddy that they would stay.

But Mycroft didn’t. He kept shaking and wheezing and clutching at his shirt over his heart until his knuckles turned white.

“Someone call an ambulance!”

“We need a doctor!”

“Someone find his parents!”

“Someone get a doctor!”

“Hang in there, son.”

“Yes, we need an ambulance to…”

Sherlock listened to the crowd around them, hearing but not processing the words as he felt tears running down his face at the sight of his older brother. Mycroft’s hand had gradually weakened its grip on his shirt, his face turning a deep plum purple as his mouth was still unhinged in a frantic attempt to gather oxygen, and the shaking by his body had slowed down to feeble tremors.

“Sherlock?”

“Mycroft! Oh my god, Mycroft!”

“We’re his parents, please let us through!”

It was a blur from there as the ambulance came to a stop beside the crowd and the paramedics whisked Mycroft away in the screaming vehicle. As his parents hastily ushered him back to the car and drove as quickly as they could to the hospital the rescuers had told them to meet their son at. As Sherlock sat in silence too somber for an eight year old to experience, he stared blankly at the white wall ahead of him, lost in his own thoughts.

Mycroft was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to be able to keep up with Sherlock.

They were supposed to become pirates. Sherlock as captain with trusty Mycroft as firstmate. How were they supposed to be pirates now? How could they be pirates if, when the moment was crucial, Mycroft would scare him like this?

Why would Mycroft betray him? Mycroft was the one person who was supposed to understand him. The one person he could count on for anything. How could he count on him if he had to worry about him?

Sherlock felt angry tears flame up in his eyes, bitter resentment encroaching on his heart as his young mind processed the fear and dread as betrayal and gross lack of care.

Sherlock thought Mycroft could keep up with him. But he was wrong. He was stronger than Mycroft and he hated it. Mycroft was his big brother- _he_ should be the stronger one.

Sherlock felt his jaw tense up as his teeth began to grind against themselves.

That tenseness continued as the doctor came out to talk to his parents, explaining that Mycroft had something called asthma and that he would need an inhaler for several years, if not the rest of his life. “We’re lucky to have gotten to him in time. He nearly died but he should be stable now. You can see him if you’d like. Right this way.”

And just like that, Sherlock felt his dreams shatter, his heart break, and the flames of resentment take him over. Mycroft would never be stronger than Sherlock like his big brother had promised. And he loathed him for it.

* * *

In what felt like a lifetime later, the once-close brothers had drifted until they were nearly nothing more than strangers to one another. One holding an incredibly formal yet _minor_ position in the government, while the other relied on police cases to distract himself in lieu of getting high. One full of resentment and actively pushing away whenever he got the chance and the other clutching fiercely at any semblance of brotherly love the pair used to have.   

Sherlock observed John with scrutiny while the smaller man picked through the morning newspaper.

The man was competent.

Sherlock didn’t have to worry about him while they chased down or fought their targets. He could rely on John to be there when it counted.

Sherlock didn’t care that John was slow on the intake of information, he much preferred flaunting his mental prowess by explaining all of his deductions than needing to check over his shoulder every block they ran to make sure his friend was still right behind him.

Sherlock barely remembered the events of that warm spring day with Mycroft. He knew the facts from the medical report; Mycroft had had a terrible asthma attack and had nearly died. Sherlock didn’t remember that. But he did remember the utter loathing that had sunk deep into his chest that day at the realization that Mycroft had betrayed everything Sherlock had counted on him for.

John wouldn’t betray him. And for that, Sherlock genuinely appreciated having him as a friend.

“Time is of the essence with this one, brother mine.” An unwelcome voice opened the morning air as Mycroft paraded into the 221B flat with as much power and order as he held with his underlings.

“What do you want, _Mycroft_?” Sherlock spat his brother’s name with such venom that even John glanced at his flatmate before turning his attention to the older brother.

“You know I abhor legwork, brother. And this one is sure to be interesting.” Mycroft dropped the manila envelope into Sherlock’s lap while his sharp eyes raked over his little brother’s body to deduce everything he had to about what had been going on over the last few weeks. Once satisfied, he met his brother’s seething glare with deft calmness and offered a small smile.

“No.” Sherlock stood and shoved the package back into Mycroft’s chest so roughly that the older man stumbled a step back. “Take your case and get out.”

Mycroft tossed the case to John, knowing the doctor wouldn’t be as likely to just throw it back at him, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s.

Sherlock sneered at him, his hands bunching into fists, knowing that if John wasn’t in the room, he would surely take out his aggression physically against his brother.

“Sherlock…” John’s voice called to the pair, audibly distracted. “This one does actually look interesting.”

Sherlock’s scowl deepened, glaring at John for not backing up his defiance, but finally relented, knowing that if John had made his mind up about a case, he wouldn’t stop bothering Sherlock about it until he took it.

Mycroft saw this easily and turned on his heel to leave the flat. “Contact me when you’ve found the person responsible.”

He didn’t want to overstay his welcome more than he already had.

It was three long and arduous days filled with office discussions, lunch meetings, phone calls, emails, and debates later that Mycroft finally got a text from his brother.

_We tracked him down._

_-S_

_Meet us at 289 Winbrook St. 8:00_

_-S_

_Don’t be late._

_-S_

Mycroft had his driver park far down the road after dropping him off, not wanting it to be a tip-off for the thief he had sent his brother after. He looked around to observe the abandoned warehouse and empty fields nearby while sighing to himself before taking off at his leisure towards the door he assumed he was meant to go through.

“Ah, brother dear. Haven’t caught him yet?” Mycroft spoke with a slightly humored tone, walking into the large dim room emptied of the equipment it once held, his umbrella tapping occasionally on the floor.

“We will be shortly.” Sherlock quipped back before turning his attention to his friend. “Ready, John?”

“Ready.” John checked and readied his gun before slipping it into his jacket, nodding to Sherlock with resolve.

“I’ll elect to ignore the fact that you have a firearm for the duration of this situation. But afterwards, we may have a chat.” Mycroft chastised John lightly, already having known from the start that the military doctor was in possession of a gun but not particularly caring.

“The man should be coming back here within the next two hours as this is his current hideout. Once he settles in, we strike.” Sherlock spoke to both individuals in company as he began to lead them to a wall of crates that would make both an excellent vantage point and hiding spot.

“And why, pray tell, did you feel the need to drag me into this?” Mycroft glared at the back of Sherlock’s head while twirling his umbrella.

“Why not? It makes it a little more interesting if I can bother you the entire time.” Sherlock’s smug smile looked back at his big brother.

“Careful, brother dear, if I didn’t know better, you were looking for an excuse to spend time with me.” Mycroft shot back, lips quirking upwards as he saw his brother suddenly tense up at the thought, Sherlock suddenly not interested in talking as he realized that Mycroft had turned his game against him with a single sentence.

The trio settled into their hiding place, silently waiting for their target to arrive.

One hour passed.

Two hours passed.

“Why the hell would I want to spend time with _you_?” Sherlock burst out, surprising both men near him, glaring sharpened daggers at his brother.

“I haven’t the slightest idea.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows as if awaiting an answer, twirling his umbrella lightly

“Boys, now isn’t the best time.” John’s lips tightened into a thin line as he attempted to play referee.

“So why say it?” Sherlock’s body tensed and his shoulders squared, all signs pointing to him ready to lash out.

“That’s simply what the evidence pointed to, Sherly. I did it to dissuade you from attempting to bother me while we’re holed up here.” Mycroft took comfort in the fact that, with John here, Sherlock had a much lower probability of physically attacking him, but also kept in mind that Sherlock held on to grudges. He didn’t want to be in a room alone with Sherlock when his little brother had a grudge to take care of. It never ended well.

“Boys, you’re both going to ruin this mission if you don’t shut up!” John stood and moved so he could see the pair, glaring back and forth.

The crisp, distinct shot of a bullet from a gun ripped through the silent warehouse, Sherlock and Mycroft staring with shocked horror as John collapsed and clutched his ankle.

Blood slowly welled up and began seeping from the deep graze against John’s lower ankle and he reacted quickly to take care of the wound, small groans and sighs of pain making their way through his gritted teeth while he worked, pulling his tie off and fastening it tightly around the laceration.

“One down, two to go.” A dark voice rang out from beyond their hideout followed by laughter. “Did you really think I’d be stupid enough to not set up some form of detection devices to know when someone entered this building? Or that I wouldn’t know all the ins and outs of this place that can only be found from studying the blueprints? I’m wanted in five countries. I’ve stolen so many millions I’ve lost track of exactly how much money I’ve got. I wouldn’t be so stupid as to not assume someone would find me eventually.”

Sherlock hung his head and shook it with aggravation, beside himself with the idea that he had been bested.

“Now than, the two of you are going to stay right there and tend to your friend while I take my leave.” The voice’s light tone gave the air of a suggestion, but both brothers knew that it was a direct order.

There was some clattering at the far end of the warehouse, quick footsteps, and then a door opening and closing, leaving the trio in the silence they started in besides the rough panting from John as he continued to tend to his foot.

“Come on!” Sherlock grabbed ahold of his brother’s arm and took off as soon as the door closed, pulling Mycroft along and gradually increasing his speed until both men were running and slamming their way out of the same door the thief had just escaped from. “The chase is on!”

The pair easily spotted their target running into an open field toward a small but thick forest and took off after him.

 _Thank god Anthea has been making me use that treadmill._ Mycroft puffed in and out in slow, measured breaths as he ran slightly behind Sherlock but kept pace, the two brothers quickly gaining ground as the bank robber had a significant amount more weight to carry as he tried to tote his cash with him.

Sherlock leapt forward, covering what little space was left between he and the thief, and tackled the burly man with a grunt. The pair rolled in the dry grass while Mycroft stopped short of them, using his umbrella as a crutch as he panted and squeezed his eyes shut. He looked around just in time to see the target pull Sherlock into a headlock and stand up, glaring at Mycroft with a wild look of disdain.

“Get on your knees.” The man panted, still maintaining a threatening tone while catching his breath. He waited for the older gentleman to comply and when he didn’t, repeated his threat with more explanation. “Get on your knees or I snap his neck.”

“Mycr-” Sherlock’s voice was choked off by the man squeezing his arm more tightly around his neck.

Mycroft felt his breath picking up, his heart rate accelerating even faster than when he had been running, his entire body screaming that Sherlock was in danger.

“What is that silly phrase John and you share, brother dear?” Mycroft stopped leaning on his umbrella and held it with both hands, one hand on the handle and the other on the body of the object. “Vatican cameos?”

Sherlock moved with as much energy as he could and pulled his head to the right of the body behind him, Mycroft pulling the hidden gun from the umbrella at the same time and shot the thief through the forehead before the criminal even had time to register what was happening.

Sherlock tumbled away from the corpse and jumped to his feet, eyes instantly on his brother.

Mycroft clicked the pistol back into umbrella and gave Sherlock a small smile.

“Alright, brother dear?” Mycroft looked over his younger sibling, making sure there were no injuries.

“Yes, well, that did prove more interesting than most of the cases you force on me.” Sherlock took time to shake the dry grass out of his coat and smooth the fabric over with a huff before glaring daggers at the dead body. Once he was satisfied that the man was completely dead, he turned his attention over to his sibling.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock looked over the middle-aged man who was once again using his umbrella as a crutch, the faint wheezes struggling past his slightly trembling lips sending a chill through Sherlock’s body.

“My-!” Sherlock cut himself off as he dove to catch his brother, the older brother collapsing bonelessly to the side.

“Mycroft! Mycroft!” Sherlock wrapped his arms around his brother and hugged him, pulling his older brother’s torso into his lap and letting Mycroft's head rest against his chest.

Mycroft kept his eyes squeezed shut, focusing on his breathing. His body was already panicking but he could barely concentrate on it over the noise of his little brother shaking him and calling his name repeatedly.

“Sh-Sherlock, I need you to reach into my right pocket on the inside of my suit coat.” Mycroft could feel his throat closing like a noose. “M-my inhaler. P-please.”

He felt a hand roughly leave it’s place around his body and dig through his jacket, shaking fingers fumbling around through his tailored fabric.

“My, there’s nothing there.” Sherlock looked at his brother for more instructions, but was only greeted with a deep red face and purple mouth that was open but not breathing.

Mycroft barely registered the words but upon not feeling his sibling moving anymore and not feeling any medicine being administered to him, he weakly realized that his inhaler must not be there.

“My!” Sherlock shook the body in his lap, waiting for an answer. When none came he took the liberty to frantically tear through all of Mycroft’s other pockets, many of which had contents but none of which had anything that remotely resembled the item he was looking for.

“Mycroft, please!” Sherlock could only watch in horror as his brother’s skin continued to change into darker and darker colors. “Please, My, breathe! Oh god, come on!”

“Mr. Holmes?” Sherlock turned his attention toward the concerned voice and laid eyes on Mycroft’s driver, the car parked on the service road a little ways away.

“You need to get him to a hospital immediately!” Sherlock stood up as quickly as he could without hurting his brother and locked his arms under Mycroft’s armpits and around his chest, pulling the man through the grass towards the car.

The driver quickly saw what he was doing and picked up Mycroft’s feet, the pair rushing to place him in the backseat and buckle him in place.

“It’s his asthma. There’s no time. _Go_!” Sherlock screamed at the driver, fear wracking his frame as he watched the car send up a cloud of dust as it sped away.

“Sherlock?” Sherlock turned toward the warehouse and spotted John leaning heavily against the doorframe, the foot he got shot in pulled off the ground. “Can you call a taxi? I don’t think I want to walk back.”

* * *

“Ah, hello, brother dear.” Mycroft watched easily as Sherlock marched into his bedroom, his fingers never breaking their speed as they twitched effortlessly across his laptop keyboard.  

Anthea had convinced the doctors to allow Mycroft Holmes to leave the hospital and work from home with the strict promise that the man would stay on bed-rest for several days while his body healed from the attack.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock nodded in greeting and helped himself to sitting in a chair nearby, John standing off to the side with one hand clasped around a cane to take some weight off of his injured foot.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Mycroft shut his computer softly and focused his attention on the pair in front of him, seeing nothing out of the obvious from John but deducting numerous oddities from his brother.

“I… we were just wondering if you had any cases for us?” Sherlock glanced at Mycroft before letting his attention meander around the room.

“Oh?” Mycroft took a second look at John after noticing that Sherlock hadn’t slept in two nights and had five- no, six- nicotine patches on his arms.

“Yes.” Sherlock said simply, not bothering to make up any excuses. That, more than anything, worried Mycroft.

“Dr. Watson, may I speak to my brother alone?” Mycroft’s lips twitched into a small smile, relieved when the older gentleman nodded and left without a word.

Sherlock stayed quiet, staring at the floor in front of the bed while his eyes glazed over in thought.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft called his brother’s attention back to him, not completely sure what the matter was.

“The last time you had an attack like that I was eight.” Sherlock’s voice was soft and distant as his eyes maintained their glaze. “I was chasing someone down a street and you collapsed.”

“A man snatched a woman’s purse. As I recall, you were in the midst of your pirate phase and decided to catch him.” Mycroft’s eyebrow raising was the only change in his neutral facial expression as he continued to carefully study the man in front of him.

“You almost died.” Sherlock’s voice was quieter.

“Death comes to us all, brother dear.” Mycroft’s voice was softer than before, speaking to himself as much as his sibling.

“Not to fifteen year old boys who are just trying to look after their kid brother.” Sherlock’s voice was harsher than either of them had expected, the man’s eyes still not rising to meet his brother’s just yet.

Mycroft was quiet for a long moment, debating on whether to even say anything or to just let the silence continue. Sherlock spoke again before the decision could be made.

“You almost died in front of me and I hated you for it. You were supposed to be stronger than me and I felt betrayed because you were sick.” If Mycroft hadn’t been at a loss of words before, he certainly was now, completely in the dark at what to say as his brother never talked about his feelings, least not to Mycroft.

“I... “ Mycroft’s brow furrowed deeply in concern and thought. “Now see here, Sherlock, how do you expect me to respond to that?”

“Caring is a disadvantage.” Sherlock murmured before scoffing bitterly at the words.

Mycroft felt something in his chest tug at those words, knowing that as true as those words were, Sherlock was never one to heed warnings. As often as Sherlock liked to brag that his emotions were nearly as obsolete as his brothers and that he felt nothing, he felt more than most of his friends combined. His emotions were stronger than most people's. And he cared more than he liked to show. That was one of Mycroft’s biggest concerns. He had always been worried that Sherlock would get hurt by caring about someone. And he couldn’t believe, _never_ , he had told himself, could never believe that Sherlock would direct that care towards him.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft felt his breath huff quietly in annoyance at not being able to find the right words. “Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed as they met his, the unshed tears making his already unnaturally colored iris’ glisten in the bedroom light.

“My… losing you would… I can’t lose you.” Sherlock shook his head and stood up with determination, body beginning to show signs of stress at the very idea of losing his older sibling.

“And you won’t.” Mycroft nodded firmly and gave a soft smile. “You’re stuck with me for a little while longer, brother dear.”

Sherlock let out a breathy chuckle and looked at his feet before looking back up to Mycroft.

“Good.” Sherlock offered a genuine smile for a moment, which Mycroft shared back gratefully,  before Sherlock cleared his throat loudly and looked around the room.

“So, no cases than.” Sherlock confirmed needlessly.

“I’ll be sure to let you know if something comes up.” Mycroft’s face slipped back into its neutral position, hands opening his laptop and plugging in the password and fingers setting back to typing where they left off without his eyes ever leaving Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded stiffly and walked toward the bedroom door, hand reaching out to open it.

“Oh, and Sherlock,” Mycroft tilted his head to look after his sibling. “Do keep out of trouble.” He tilted his chin toward his chest to look at Sherlock with the look only mothers were usually capable of.

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort but instead shut it and reconsidered. “Only until you’re back on your feet, brother dear.” He opened the door and left swiftly without waiting for a reply.

“That’s all I ask.” Mycroft sighed with a shake of his head and a slight smile as he returned his attention to the laptop in front of him, chest a little lighter than it had been before the visit.  


End file.
